Mortuary Confidential

the funeral home was just down the block, and the new casket arrived in minutes. With as much dignity as we could muster, the pallbearers and I placed Father Iggy into his new casket and re-draped the pall. The service proceeded without further incident, but as a precaution, meaning no disrespect to the senior priest, I had the pallbearers wheel Father Iggy out on the church truck instead of carrying him.

The most difficult thing I’ve ever done in my life was to walk out of that church with Father Iggy, knowing that every pair of eyes in the congregation was fixed on me—and every mind was wondering, what kind of funeral home allows a priest to fall out of his casket?

I later figured out what caused Father Iggy’s second coming. The “minimum caskets” are held together at the joints by wooden dowels and glue. Our company policy was to order the minimum caskets in bulk to receive a discount. Father Iggy’s first casket had probably been stored in the basement so long that the glue had dried out— and the joints had come apart from the weight of his body.

After the “Father Iggy Incident,” as it came to be known, there was no more ordering in bulk.

CHAPTER 30 The Dove Contributed by an amateur surfer

One day I killed a dove—a beautiful, innocent white dove. The symbol of innocence and purity—and I murdered it. Normally, I release them at graveside services, but not on this day. Instead of releasing the bird as a symbol of the deceased’s freed soul, I unceremoniously stomped it. Now, before you start calling me a sadist or sociopath or report me to PETA, let me tell you of the events leading up to the slaying. It went something like this:

I was driving the hearse for a dead man whose funeral arrangements I had made. I was to lead the funeral procession from the funeral home, where the services had been, to the cemetery. Before we left, the wife pitched me an unusual request: Could she accompany her husband on his last ride? In some areas of the country I understand it is common practice for the deceased’s spouse to ride in the hearse with the funeral director, but it is uncommon in my area.

“I’d be happy to have you accompany me and your late husband,” I told the widow.

I rode in uneasy stillness with this very WASPy woman wearing her wide brimmed ’40s style hat. In the stagnant, plastic-smelling car air, the silence was so thick I could almost cut it with a dull knife. Normally, I am very easygoing around the bereaved families I serve, and I had been comfortable with this widow until the moment she got into the hearse with me. But now I felt like I was fifteen all over again, learning to drive with my mother in the other seat stamping on her imaginary brake every three seconds. With every bump, every abrupt stop or acceleration, I felt her watching me, evaluating me, judging me. I was so preoccupied with driving perfectly that I nearly missed a couple of turns.

I’m sure the woman had so many emotions overwhelming her that she couldn’t even function normally, but the situation was nerve-wracking for me. We were almost at our destination, when the unthinkable happened.

I pulled through the giant stone pillars of the Rest Haven Cemetery and a large dove flapped down from one of the pillars and landed right in front of the hearse. I braked hard and came to a near standstill. The beautiful bird in the road seemed not to care that a giant, smoke-belching beast was heading straight for it. I inched forward, riding the brake, and nudged the Federal Coach to the right and partially up onto the grass. Wouldn’t you know that that bird walked to the right?

I slammed on the brakes and winced. I could feel the widow’s disapproving glare as she watched the saga unfold in front of her. I could almost hear her inner voice shout at me: Can’t you even outwit a bird? My husband is in the back, dead! I cranked the wheel all the way to the left and eased off the brake. Of course, to spite me, the dove walked left.

The limousine carrying the rest of the family was right behind me, so I couldn’t back up. I was trapped. I made a game time decision. I decided to get out and shoo the bird away. I threw the hearse in park and got out. The bird, seemingly unconcerned by my presence, walked away from me and into the grass. There, I thought, that ought to take care of him. I hopped back into the hearse, and back into the roadway the dove walked.

That’s it, I thought, if I just move the hearse up, it’ll be smart enough to fly away. So, my foot on the brake, I steered the hearse closer and closer and closer… and I hit the bird. In the silence of the hearse the squawking of the injured dove was loud, very loud.

I winced.

The widow winced.

What could I do? I drove forward.

In the rearview mirror I watched as the bird, with a wing obviously broken, flapped about on the pavement briefly before the limousine crushed it. The widow jumped when the squawking suddenly ceased with a loud crunch. And I watched further as each of the thirty cars in the procession ran over the carcass.

While I’m not the one who actually killed the dove, a lawyer might say the extent of my culpability was “reckless endangerment.” Regardless of the legalities of who actually killed the bird, I was treated to the widow’s withering stare the whole time the minister committed her husband’s body to the ground.

CHAPTER 31 A Hug, a Hope Contributed by a professional speaker

It was the middle of winter. The type of day when the grass is frozen and crunches underfoot, but the sun shines brightly and there’s not a cloud to be seen. The type of day when the wind blows just enough to remind you winter is still there, but the sunshine, courting favor with the cold, reminds you spring is only around the corner. I was young, just starting my apprenticeship, standing, hands buried deep in my woolen topcoat, neck compressed into a scarf, watching the men from the vault company do their somber work.

The tent flapped in the breeze as the two men sealed the concrete vault and cranked the entire package into the yawning hole cut into the earth. The congregation had long since gone to their luncheon to laugh, reminisce, eat and maybe drink. I had chosen to stay and watch. I didn’t inspect their work, but observed it like a voyeur. As the men broke down the bier, I caught the eye of a woman standing a stone’s throw away at another headstone. She turned away quickly but then looked again as if she was gaining her courage.

The next time I looked, she was staring at me. It was a blatant, open stare that some might call curious and some rude. But by the look in her eyes I could tell it was neither.

I went over to where she was standing.

“Can I help you with something?” I asked, and flashed a smile. The woman was dressed professionally, like a businesswoman on her lunch break. She was middle-aged and pleasant looking. She had kind, soft eyes. The wrinkles around them told a harder, different story.

“I—You look—” Her breaths gave off puffs of steam as she spoke. “Never mind,” she finished lamely.

I looked at the grave where she stood. The headstone had a man’s name on it. He had died very young, I noted. He had been my age. “Your son?”

She bit her bottom lip and nodded. We stood in silence for a few moments. “I miss him. I miss him so much,” she simply stated. “He was such a good kid. Our first—” She put her chin on her chest to collect herself. “Somebody ran a red light. It was… the middle of the day. Nobody was drunk or anything. He was just at the wrong intersection that day.”

She shook her head as if confused while staring at the headstone, and then looked at me ruefully. “I’m sorry—”